I spotted it at one of those impossibly curated boutiques in the West Village, the kind where everything costs three times what it should and the salespeople dress like elegant European architects. The ceramic flower hung there on the wall like some mutant offspring of an artichoke and a peony, its glazed green petals layered with the precise messiness of nature imitating itself. "It's a wall art," the salesperson offered unnecessarily, as if I might have mistaken it for an exotic fruit. What caught my eye wasn't just its improbable size – roughly that of a human head – but the clever keyhole mounting on its back, solving that eternal renter's dilemma of how to hang art without committing crimes against your security deposit. My sister would hate it, which made me want it more. She's the type who believes abstract art is a conspiracy invented by people who can't draw proper flowers. But there was something deeply satisfying about this ceramic beast, with its leaves splaying out like a Georgia O'Keeffe painting had a love child with industrial design. It was the kind of piece that would make guests ask, "What is that?" – a question I'd answer differently each time, just to keep myself entertained.